A Slower Start
by Late to the Party
Summary: Sarevok always is the villain. Gorion is always slain. The Iron Crisis always erupts. Imoen is still Imoen. Events always play out. Candlekeep is always left behind. Always? AU.
1. I

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters, setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

**A/N: This piece was written in a day, using the idea of the first line and seeing where it developed.**

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I

The first life to be taken was Gorion's. It started with another round of endless lessons. The words 'You must learn to be patient, child!' spoken over and over. This time, years of suppressed frustration exploded into white, first rage then… nothing. He wasn't even sure what had happened; his magic or the knife. The knife on the desk he had used to crush and cut beetles and other components with. A small blade, closer to a scalpel than to cutlery. Cutlery that the visiting nobles used. The Art… could it have been that? It did not matter. Something within him rose up; one moment Gorion was there, and the next, he was slumped against the wall of his cell, his scalp crushed, broken, blood against the stonework. Somehow, the sage had missed the bookcase.

Then he felt himself squeezing something so tightly, he thought his fingers would break. The knife was bloodied; his fingers sticky. A single line drawn across Gorion; he felt alive, filled. Leeching. Siphoning. It was not a slow death. Power filled him. Horror. Sickened by the thrill, the _life_, the knowledge of what he had done. The hunger awoken inside.

Leaving everything, he fled to the catacombs, the knife still clutched in a grip he dared not prise apart.


	2. II

II

The catacombs were warded but only at their entrance. As a child, he had come across the cellars in the kitchen, and then deeper, abandoned cellars. There was a loose wall, aged bricks, and he had pried his way in as curiosity took over. He went there to explore, to be alone. Unseen, unheard, solace, solitude. The monk's robe hid his trembling, stained hands, clamped together under the long sleeves, the hood drawn up over his head. The standard garb of those at Candlekeep. Eyes down, his pace was the hurried shuffle of one late to his lessons. No one saw his face, the horror, the guilt.

He closed up the bricks behind him. One by one. And then, he fled. There was a basilisk down there, somewhere; its hissing, scuttling many-clawed feet against the damp stones, the statues of rats and giant spiders… it fascinated him. Gorion would have forbidden it had he ever discovered where his ward had gone, but danger only added to the allure. Aside from its venomous bite, and the evil teeth and claws, there was its stare. The infirmary carried potions against some of these things, and in times past, he had flinched the odd bottle, and stashed it away. What the infirmary lacked, the different cupboards of alchemy throughout the keep held, student monks, the mages… but most of their cupboards were warded. A potion of 'mirrored eyes' should have been easy to find, but he had not, not in all the years he had crept about. Being caught wasn't worth the risk either. So instead, he had resorted to bribery. He liked to think he had an… affinity with the monster. He would leave it treats taken from the kitchen. Apple tarts, jellies, pies; anything fit for nobles. He had even hauled off a pot of stew.

It had attracted rats, naturally, and the statues of the rats were proof his 'friend' had found his gifts. Now he had to try and stay alive.


	3. III

III

The Watchers came for him first. Half the barracks, split into twos and threes. Others, such as dear old Phlydia, Tethtoril and Karan joined in. He heard them calling his name, Hull the Watcher, threatening him with the belt if he didn't come out, and Fuller, another Watcher, saying it would be worse if he didn't give himself up. Karan coaxed while Tethtoril promised all they wanted was to find out what happened, that things would be sorted out, that he would be treated fairly.

He fled further into the tunnels. He knew the route to the sea caves, but that was not where he headed. The Watchers sprang some of the ancient traps, tripwires he knew to avoid, other devices left behind. Magic didn't work so well down here, the mages found out, as the ancient enchantments flared. He heard the Watchers' cursing as he hid. Then they ran across the spiders, and Karan's concern warring with Tethtoril's practicality. They argued about the folly of pressing further and how they could not simply leave him down there, not with a basilisk on the loose. It would be a death sentence, one pronounced. Hull put a stop to it. Two of his fellows had already been wounded, caught on the tripwires, and if there was a basilisk down there, he wasn't risking his life for a 'murderer'. Karan corrected him gently that they weren't sure if 'the boy was a murderer'. Hull's reply was that if he was too frightened to come out, his guilt was self evident.

'Or he could just be terrified.'

'He shouldn't have run.'

The voices lingered for a while, and then they went away. He followed them. Near the top of the stairs, he heard Imoen's protests, but she was overruled, and she ran off, crying.

He had never known how fond of him she was. They never spent much time together; he only ever saw her in Winthrop's inn, while she waited tables. Sometimes she shared a drink with him. He simply listened and let her steal part of his stew or cheese pie, even as they both drank small ales. It wasn't much but maybe it had meant more to her than it had to him?


	4. IV

IV

Some time after that, he found pies and covered pots of stew at his secret entrance. Somehow, she had found it. This went on for several days. Then one day, they stopped. He supposed she had been caught. Water had been his biggest concern, but the walls were damp, slick with slime in places, and pools had formed. Freshwater, in spite of being so close to the sea. Stalactites and stalagmites had formed, and he made his home beside one such pool. The basilisk left him alone, mostly. Instead of a monster, it had become a comfort. But soon, hunger set in. Once again, desperation and frustration caused the white to flare, and soon, he supped on rats. Not over a fire, on skewers, but with the knife, and the single line drawn across them. Somehow, his magic stunned them, working in spite of the old wards. Time began to lose all meaning. Occasionally, he heard the heavy boots of the Watchers, but they never ventured far. Their torchlight was a dead giveaway, and he stayed far from it. Once, they circled around, scouring the many sea caves, but he avoided those. Cold and exhaustion, the damp air and fear should have claimed him, but his eyes grew used to the black, the murky shapes, and each rat he drew from invigorated him. It was an addiction.

It wasn't long until simply siphoning their live energies wasn't enough. Boredom and endless hours fuelled his frustration, and the guilt over what had happened constantly challenged him. In dreams, he saw it happening over and over, only this time, he was in control, and he deliberately used the knife. Not just one line, but many lines, so many that they formed a shape: the image of a skull. A skull surrounded by tears. Gorion's robe was torn away, his chest a canvas. The blood lines flared as he drew again and again, and not just his life energies, but his very soul. Murderer, his own mind screamed, while another part laughed and laughed endlessly. He could hear that laughing upon waking.


	5. V

V

He began to study the rats. Watched their comings and goings, their habits. He began to feel their thoughts, reaching for their mind with his. It wasn't long before he found himself settling into their thoughts, feeling what they felt. Their chattering, their skittering. Their fear. They feared him, feared the spiders, feared the terrible, silent monster. Most of all, they feared the 'devourer'. It was only later he realised that _he_ was the devourer. By then, it meant nothing.

All the while, the basilisk left him alone. It was a catcher of fish, he decided, as he found himself watching it through the rats' eyes. It would dive into the sea pools, where the fresh water met the salt, and swim for miles. There were many wrecks it explored; had it been a dragon, surely its hoard would have been great. But 'treasure' meant nothing to either of them. One day, he wanted to follow the basilisk, and to his surprise, the rat whose mind he shared obeyed his will. After that, he began to dominate the wills of first the rats, then the giant spiders, and then, he shared the basilisk's mind.

It became apparent why the basilisk left him alone. It sensed his power, feared what was inside him, but also remembered the sweet things he had brought. It was old, cunning, and had been there for decades. Its mind was unlike the rats; the spiders' thoughts were strange, primitive and their sight had taken getting used to, but the basilisk was something different. There was a guile, a canniness, a… it was not warm, but he treated it with respect, offering, not forcing. At first, the basilisk resisted, but gentle coaxing and firm insistence over a period of days changed its mind. It did not see time the way he saw time, nor categorised things as he did. It saw things as predators, prey, and its mate and young had it had any, but in the basilisk's mind, he was something else. It took a while for their thoughts to gel, probing deeper into the creature's mind. Soon, he was able to guide it, the monster aware that its mind could be overcome, and somehow respecting that he had not.

They dove together, searching out the wrecks. He learned, through the basilisk's knowledge of the colony of sirines off the shore a short way down from Candlekeep, of the sharks in the deeper waters; sharks that it liked to feast upon. A new categorisation formed in the basilisk's mind. He was not its young, but something else. An… ally. Even a friend.

One day, he walked to the threshold of its lair. He waited; the basilisk stood in the centre, its eight legs ready to charge. He sat. Finally, the basilisk allowed him in. He moved slowly, his thoughts unobtrusive, respectful. The monster's eyes were on him. He remained flesh.


	6. VI

VI

His arms wrapped around the scaled neck, that terrible mouth closed. Something akin to a purr rumbled from deep within the monster. The sea sponge it had ripped from the floor had let him scour its scales, and it became a daily ritual. Scrubbing away the dry, dead skin, washing clean the parasites. In turn, he found himself being pinned and licked, the fearsome basilisk becoming a mother cat, or puppy. They would swim together, in bodies and in mind. They feasted on shark, and he on rat. They discovered, by chance, that the sirines' song meant nothing while he was in the monster's mind, and when they found one after a storm, pulled down by the undertow, they took it, their minds as one, and dragged it back to the lair. She resisted, and kept resisting. In a sudden fit of rage, he overpowered her mind, his thoughts shredding hers.

He regretted it afterwards, immediately wishing he could take it back. There was nothing left of her; an empty husk, a murdered shell. Fear and outrage had held her mind, indignation mixed with desperation to escape. He longed for company, to study her. He did not want her pearls, her flesh. But all that was gone. He gave her to the basilisk. His companion dined well.

But the lesson had been learned. He needed to learn control.

The colony scoured the sea for their sister, but found no trace of her. They concluded the sharks had eaten her. When the next storm rose but a few days later, the sea bed was churned up. This time, a ship sank, but there were no survivors. Those that did not magic themselves away fell victim to the waves before he could get there; it was dangerous to go out, even in the basilisk. So they waited for the calm. They found another sirine. She was wounded, and died in their lair. Before she passed, he entered her mind; she was too weak to resist. He didn't understand her body, didn't know how to repair it. He tried to heal it using rats, attempting to bridge their life energy with hers, but it wasn't enough. Feeling her slip away, something within him rose up, the hunger, and he fed upon her fading energies, yanking her back from beyond. The dark laughter in the recess of his being resounded. He fought the feeding, but it overwhelmed him. Her body went to the basilisk.

For several days afterwards, he sat, disillusioned. His companion nudged him, the long closed snout insistent. It did little to rouse him, but finally, he swam with it again, riding along with its thoughts. This time, the basilisk brought him back a gift. It was from the wreckage of the sunken ship. A barrel. How long had it been since he tasted ale? The sea had yet to spoil it, and he shared it with the creature. It was the strangest feeling, he later decided, the haze spreading over both their thoughts. They slumped, swaying, his giggling, the basilisk's confusion as they rolled. They fell asleep together, his arms clinging, its legs wrapped around him. The basilisk had rarely tasted ale before. It seemed indifferent to the taste.


	7. VII

VII

Their days continued to be spent together, and for a time, it seemed as if things would continue as they had forever. Two seasons passed, his knowledge of the outside made possibly by his journeys with his companion. Then, everything changed. The Mirrorkin arrived. The basilisk sensed them before he could; through the eyes of the rats, he watched. They infiltrated the catacombs, and stole away their victims; first their bodies, then their face. It started with the Watchers. Hull, Fuller… he watched as their faces were taken. He had never tried to enter a human mind before, but by the time he reached them in the rat, they were gone. He sent the spiders after the Mirrorkin after that. Three were killed, two captured. He probed its mind, a doppelgänger in the words of others. His anger was icy, but the creature's mind was slippery, more resistant than the sirines'. He tore it apart, piece by piece, and let the spiders devour it. Its fellow called him a 'primate', but the insults meant nothing.

As he learned its secrets, forced it to teach him how it stole faces, the other Mirrorkin were busy abducting and murdering. Karan became a victim, Phlydia… he couldn't stop them. Not while they operated beyond the catacombs. Then Imoen was taken. Before they could finish her off, he sent in the spiders, the rats, and the basilisk. There were a dozen of them; grey, hairless, using illusions to trick the warm-bloods. None of it worked with the spiders, and the rats swarmed them. Some were webbed, others eaten alive, and a few became statues. Imoen's screams were muffled, but he ordered the spiders to web her. On the basilisk's back, he carried her from the old cells and set her down in their lair. The spiders and rats he left for when the doppelgängers returned.

His companion wasn't pleased with the presence of another, and he quickly realised it was right. He couldn't keep her there; she belonged on the surface. Taking her out beyond the sea caves, he left her on the shore, high above the waterline, nestled against soft shrubs. She would awake and be free, he hoped. He took one last look at her youthful features, then placed a hesitant kiss on her cheek, and prised apart the webbing. The sun would dry her out.

Then he returned to the welcoming darkness.


	8. VIII

VIII

The wards were there to keep spiders and other vermin out. The basilisk was strong enough to break down the old cellar walls. From the mind of the doppelgänger, he learned the telltale marks of the Mirrorkin, the scent, the small twitches. The glassy eyes. Tiny, little details. But more than that, the feel of their thoughts. He learnt the faces they had stolen, and realised in horror that everyone he had every known was dead. They had infiltrated and murdered. How they had been so successful was beyond him. There were meant to be wards in place, they were a community of scholars and mages. Clerics, sages… but one by one, they had been picked off. He had taken too long probing the Mirrorkin's mind; time had passed without his knowledge. Days. Tendays. The Mirrorkin had seen the losses as natural, not abductions.

With only Imoen left, the doppelgängers would soon leave. His army of vermin swarmed. The arachnids spun their webs, scurrying up and blocking off doorways. The rats went in packs, chasing down one Mirrorkin after another. They appeared in mimicry of those he had known, and only in death did they return to their grey, hairless form; the screams tore at him. The dark laughter inside never ceased. It was angry he had spared Imoen, but now it delighted in the chaos.

Floor by floor, doorway by doorway. The screams alerted the others, and they came to investigate. One – a monk he did not recognise – was the only one not afraid of the spiders, and his 'heh', was deep, and then his fist smashed into the many eyes of one arachnid, causing it to explode with a sickening crunch. Innards and goo showered the walls and floor; chitin broke. One spider, then two. With just his broad arms, and his boot, he ploughed his way through four without losing his stride. Tall, powerful, his eyes were gold. The rats feared him the way they feared…

The doppelgängers did not know the man's name. In monk robes, he moved easily, with a slow, deliberate grace. They had left him alone. Feared him.

The basilisk did not. Trying to slip into the other's mind would have been a mistake; he could feel the power radiating from him. Leaving him a statue from a shadowed hallway as the spiders distracted him with their webs was harder than he expected. The other's will fought against the enchanted gaze, but he poured his own power into it. A struggle for life itself consumed him, the dark laughter raging, demanding. The basilisk felt its own life energy being pulled into the contest and struggled. The struggling was useless, its writhing slowly, ceasing. The golden eyed man became stone, and the basilisk weakened. He could feel its breath slowing, dying. He tried to transfer the webbed doppelgängers' life energies to it, but it wasn't enough. With a final lick to his face, his friend passed.

Hapless rage took him, and he shoved the statue down the stairs. It broke, spilling out into golden dust.

He was alone.


	9. IX

IX

He found her, later. Huddled up, shocked. Unable to remember what had happened. She couldn't believe everyone was gone; couldn't believe he was alive. They grieved together. Finally, she asked him what happened with Gorion. For a time, he was silent. Then he explained the magic exploded, about the dark laughter, the terrible dreams. It spilled out in a rush. Slow at first, then… everything. The sirines, the arachnids, the statue. She listened, wide eyed, nodding.

Then she explained who the statue was, a newcomer named 'Koveras'. He chanted the prophecies of Alaundo with his eyes closed, one of the monks had gossiped in the inn. He kept to himself, aloof, arrogant. There had been a meeting, negotiations she wasn't supposed to know about, something about an 'Iron Crisis'; a plague that gripped the Sword Coast. He had been gone for months and months, she said, then latched onto him, clinging. She knew it was him who saved her; she didn't know how, but as if in a dream, she felt him near, as if cradling her, laying her gently on the grass.

There was no one else alive. The dignitaries, knights and noble merchants from their dress were already dead by the time he found them. There was nothing left for them, except the belongings and the wealth of knowledge the library held. Most of the mages' wards were still in place. So they gathered what they could and headed to the catacombs. Imoen shielded her eyes and tried not to look at the fallen. Anything that could be personally identified, they left. Coin, jewels, enchanted items… anything of value. Anything that could help them start a new life, somewhere far from there. Neither of them had left Candlekeep in what seemed like forever; for him, it was forever. He had no recollections before then, and Imoen's own were scant.

The stench of death seemed to linger for days. They bathed in the cool waters, Imoen shivering, even as they brought lanterns down and set up cook pots with oil and wood, lit from torches. The run of the keep would have been attractive were it not for the circumstances. There were horses in the stables, and the inn was empty of nobles, reserved for the dignitaries. Soon, they knew, others would come, and if discovered, questions would be asked. They looted the temple of Oghma, paying reverence as they took. The dead had no use of such items. They plundered the inn, taking from Winthrop's stores. Imoen's 'inheritance', she called it, knowing her foster father would want her to have these things. She couldn't believe he was gone. They went through each room of the keep, and the barracks, and they amassed a hoard. At the campfire, they sat and remembered the names of the fallen. Jessup, Theodon, Bendalis. Shistal. Piato. Erik. Reevor. Obe. Dreppin. Ulraunt. They laughed and wept. His hands in hers, they sat. She spoke of Gorion, Winthrop, and then she held him.

With the dawn, they took the horses from the stables, but not Rieltar's horse, and packed whatever they could into the enchanted saddlebags, and prayed the bandits that lined the roads would not find them.


	10. X

X

At the end of the road to Candlekeep, they sat uneasily on the unfamiliar saddles. Neither of them really knew how to ride, but guiding the horses' thoughts with his own helped. Before they set off, they had doused some of the feed with the 'invisibility potions' stolen from the stores. If it came to it, they and the horses would disappear.

Had she forgiven him? Why wasn't she afraid? He thought of how terrified she was, how she had smiled. What other terrors awaited them? She seemed calmer when he was there. Wasn't he a monster? The dark laughter had dulled to silent, sullen anger, but he shut it out. Why had Koveras turned to golden dust? Why had he felt… a connection near the end? She had kissed him that morning when he had asked all these and more. Her eyes were apprehensive, but smiled. An adventure. With pugtails and trollops. No excitement in her words, just sadness, but they promised to leave it all behind, to stay together. It would have to be enough.

The rats had carried the basilisk back to its lair, carried all their friends. They had set a pyre. The flames roared, the air choked out; they set a trail of oil, and left the catacombs in silence. He could not forget the sight, could not still the questions. At least they had each other.

"North or south?" Imoen asked, then after a moment, commented, "I always wanted to visit Waterdeep."

He shrugged. Neither of them had really put any thought into where they were going. He held out his hand; smiling, she took it and squeezed. The realms awaited.


End file.
